


Things That Are/Things That Shouldn't Be

by MFLuder



Category: Heroes (TV), Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Crossover, Episode Related, Episode: s01e20 Five Years Gone, Future Fic, Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: Five years after the bomb goes off, Freya finds herself still hiding what she is, and still working for the NSA. She discovers a friend who has been gone for some time, but he’s lost, even to himself. Can she ever get him back his memories?





	Things That Are/Things That Shouldn't Be

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted September 28, 2008, on [my DW](https://mf-luder-xf.dreamwidth.org/191999.html). Originally posted in two parts due to character limits, but it was always intended as one whole.
> 
> When I wrote this I was on one of those kicks where you discover an actor and then consume all the things they ever did, even the bad Canadian made-for-TV movies. Joe Flanigan, I love your hair forever. And Thoughtcrimes, you were far from the worst of the bunch.

“Here you go, Bennet,” Freya McAllister said as she walked into the tiny office, handing the man a small file. “Found another family for you. They were already in hiding, but not well enough. Little boy has telekinesis.”

“Thanks, Freya,” the thin man nodded, distracted as he reviewed a piece of paper.

She nodded back before heading into the hallway, absent-mindedly listening for any suspicious thoughts.

She had been at this for five years now. Well, more, if one counted the whole time she’s worked for the National Security Agency. It had been five years for Bennet, though, and she couldn’t help but feel they’d done little to nothing. It was a new world, but it sure as hell wasn’t a brighter one.

When the bomb went off in New York and Nathan Petrelli ascended to the Oval Office, she’d hoped something good could come out of it. She had met Nathan once, two years before the bomb, at a party hosted by his family. She was there as part of his father’s service detail and in the ten minutes she’d spoken to him, she had been both turned off…and turned on. He was as slippery as any politician, his words never saying what he truly meant. Yet, while his thoughts displayed a cunning mind, they also displayed conviction and good intent.

It didn’t happen, though. Instead, he signed that despicable bill into law. At that point she’d been grateful that only three believable people had ever known about her “gift”: Harper, Dr. Michael Welles, and Brendan. Harper had kept his mouth shut when the edict came down, too dependent on her skills to want to turn her in. Brendan…she hadn’t seen him since the bomb. She didn’t even know if he was still alive. The doctor—her mentor—had died two days after the bomb from radiation sickness. Before taking her secret to the grave, Michael had handed her a slip of paper with a single name: Bennet.

And so she had continued to work for the NSA, under a different capacity.

She and Bennet had found hundreds of children since that fateful day when President Petrelli betrayed an eighth of the nation; more, worldwide. Now he was going to announce a cure? His chief science advisor, Mohinder Suresh, might be good, but he couldn’t know more than Michael who had devoted his life to finding and helping telepaths like her. Seeing the structure and knowing the framework didn’t mean a person understood it.

_Gonna get what’s coming to him…_

_Can’t wait to get home to my wife…_

_Ellie, God, I wish you were here…_

_Wow, that hamburger’s really disagreeing with me…_

_Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum…_

Freya couldn’t help the small grin that escaped when she heard Agent Mulley humming the theme song from the old _The X-Files_ TV show. Especially when he was so consumed by the song in his head, he didn’t notice the doorframe wasn’t as large as he thought it was.

_…Peter Petrelli…_

She whipped around upon hearing that thought. The President’s brother hadn’t been seen in years. Word had it he was secretly working with Hiro Nakamura, though she highly doubted it. Peter had never been one for terrorist attacks. She’d met him at the same party when she met Nathan and Peter had come across as shy and almost whiny, but passionate about people. Then again, people changed. Especially in times like this. 

She listened, but the thought was gone. She had, however, caught the man who’d thought it. Matt Parkman. What was he doing in Texas? He knew. He had to know something. They needed Peter more than ever, now.

~~~

She slunk into the tacky strip bar which seemed to be Peter’s choice of hang out, according to locals. It had been relatively easy to find him once she’d located the town where he was living—hard to miss a guy with a scar across his entire face.

It was early and she wasn’t expecting to see Peter for some time. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. An ally? Vindication? To know why he wasn’t in DC trying to knock some sense into his brother’s head?

She ordered a club soda and settled in to wait.

_Class act tonight. Damn, that Jessica’s fine._

_Why did she leave me, I can’t believe she left…_

_…I hate my life…_

_Scooby-Dooby Doo, where are you…_

No. It couldn’t be. Not here. Here of all places…

Freya stood and walked towards a corner booth, clouded in shadow, even mid-day.

“Brendan?” she breathed the question.

_Dooby-Doo…Did someone call my name? Nah, must be hearing things, no one knows that name, I’m not him anymore…Where are you…_

“Brendan.” She spoke louder this time, and his eyes snapped to hers.

He looked like a something the cat dragged in. She remembered the first time she met him: tie half done, blue shirt untucked, hair sticking up like it had a life of its own, worried about coming off smooth to the “observer.” But now…now he had at least four-day-old beard growth. He was wearing a ratty gray tee and torn jeans. His hair flopped in his eyes.

“Do I know you?” he asked, voice raspy, as though he hadn’t used it in a long time.

“Do you—? Brendan. It’s me. Freya.” She tucked her dark curls behind an ear, hoping fully exposing her face would help.

“Freya? Oh, yes, right…”

_Scooby-Dooby Doo…_

She took a step closer and when he didn’t react, she eased into the booth across him. He was swinging his beer bottle in circles, watching the liquid swirl. 

“You don’t remember me?”

He set the bottle down.

“How do you know my name? I mean, my real name. Everyone here knows me as Eddie.”

Eddie? What an awful, dull name. It didn’t fit him. Brendan might not have been a super hero, but he’d been a great guy, a good agent, and her closest friend.

“I’m a friend,” Freya said, “Do you remember where you used to work?”

“I’ve always worked in town, here. I’m a cop.”

“A cop.”

He smiled, seeming proud of himself. “Up for promotion next week, too.”

“Eddie?”

He ducked his head, almost bashful, almost flirtatious. “Nickname I got on the force. So long ago, I think only the payroll staff remembers my real name. I just went with it.”

She reached out to touch his face. “Brendan…” 

He looked quizzically at her as she ran her thumb over his jaw line, feeling the rough scrape of facial hair beneath her fingers. She reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes.

“I know you?” he asked. “I don’t remember meeting you.”

“You don’t remember being my partner? New York, DC? Cazal?”

“Your partner? You mean, like…”

_I slept with this woman and I don‘t remember? She’s hot!_

“No, no, not partners like that. We worked together. We worked for the NSA.”

“NSA? Ok, did Bud send you? Some kind of promotion joke? Hah! What a kidder.” Brendan smiled, crooked and charmingly at her.

“No!” She was frustrated now. He wasn’t lying; his thoughts clearly indicated his confusion.

“Really. I worked for the NSA,” he repeated, sarcastically. “In another life, maybe. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s my day off, and I’d like to get back to my beer.”

She grabbed at his shoulder and drew his face close to hers, fingers on his chin. “Brendan. I know your real name. You’re Brendan Dean, born October 2nd, 1968. You grew up in Greenwhich Village with your mother and father, Lily and Dane. You were pulled right out of NYU to work for the government and at thirty-four you began working at NSA on the Cazal case. Do I look like I’m lying to you? How would I know all of this?”

His mouth twitched down. “You’ve got most of it right. Except, I never worked for the government. Not the way you mean. I finished school and came here, to Nevada. Went to cop training and have been working my way up ever since.”

She sighed. She caressed his cheek again and tried to smooth his hair. She noticed he turned into it just the slightest—like he used to.

“Will you stay here? I have a call I need to make. But I want to talk to you a bit more. I miss you, Brendan.”

He gazed at her, seeming to take her in. She knew the face he got when his logic and gut were telling him two different things. She’d seen the look enough.

“I have this strange, unaccountable feeling that I’ve missed you, too.” He nodded. “Go make your call.”

Freya smiled, standing to walk to the bar. After ordering a vodka diet coke, she pulled out her cell.

“Bennet.”

“I found him,” she spoke into the receiver.

“Found who, Freya?”

“Brendan. I just…I can’t believe it. But something’s wrong with him.”

“Wait. You found your old partner?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

She glanced around, amused. “A crappy strip club in Nevada.”

“Nevada.” His tone was sharp.

“Yeah. I heard a lead on Peter Petrelli and made my way out here, only to find Brendan.”

“Does anyone else know you’re there?”

“No.”

She heard Bennet sigh into the phone. “Keep it that way.”

“I was planning on it, but I want to bring him back. You’ve got something or someone who can fix him, right? You’ve got to.”

“Freya…” She could just picture her boss sitting at his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses like he did when he was tired. “He’s that way for a reason. When the bill came through, I had to protect you. You came to me that very next day and I understood only three living people knew about you. Me, Harper and your partner. So, the Haitian made him forget, before he went to work with Mohinder.”

“What?” Her voice was raised, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t believe it. “You did this to him? You made my best friend forget?”

“It had to be done, Freya! For your safety. He was a civilian.”

“He was NSA! He was my _partner_ , for God’s sake, Bennet! You had no right. No right.”

“Maybe not. But I couldn’t risk it. Every day I protect children and adults from being locked away or cured. You’re just another. There’s no telling who he might have told. There are other telepaths out there. And unlike you, his mind can be read.”

She bit her lip, then gulped down half her drink. “I’m bringing him in. You will fix him, you hear me? Or we’re done.”

“Freya--”

She hung up.

She ordered a beer and another drink for herself and brought them over to Brendan’s table.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he responded, smiling when she held out the bottle. “Thanks.”

“I realize you don’t entirely believe me right now…but if I promise you’ll be back in time for your promotion review, will you take a trip with me? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Where?”

“Texas.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I have this funny feeling I should go with you, while my head’s screaming that instead of just being NSA, you’re an assassin or something.”

_Just because you’re paranoid…_

“Doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, I know.” She grinned and grabbed Brendan’s hand in hers when he responded with his own slow grin.

“Why the hell not?” he shrugged, swallowing more beer.

“Now that’s the Brendan Dean I know.”

~~~

They were too late.

Freya stared blankly at the mess Bennet’s office was. It wasn’t just the papers and smashed TV. No, it was Hana and Bennet lying on the floor, apparently shot in cold blood.

“Oh, shit,” Brendan muttered behind her.

He held her up as she screamed, a million confusing thoughts whirling through her brain that she couldn’t shut out.

~~~

When she finally regained control of her emotions, and everyone else’s thoughts, she found herself lying cradled in Brendan’s arms. He was gently stroking her hair and whispering assurances and apologies and for a moment, she thought about letting it continue because no one had done that for her in a long time.

But instead, she cleared her throat and tried to make her voice sound strong as she said, “I’m okay, now. You can, ah…”

She looked up as Brendan blinked down at her.

“Oh, right.” He helped her up onto her feet, but didn’t entirely let her go, hand still warm over hers.

“I’ve got to…” She cleared her throat once more. “I’ve got to look around. Find something.”

He nodded while she turned in a circle, helplessly, wondering where to start. She wiped a hand over her face and shook herself mentally.

“Right, okay, so we—”

“Is this the kind of thing you were looking for?” Brendan asked. 

He’d crouched beside Bennet and was carefully peeling back rigor mortis fingers from a scrap of paper. Brendan slipped the yellowed and blood-stained sheet out and solemnly handed it to her.

It read simply: _The Haitian_.

Freya took a moment to wipe once more at the dried tear tracks on her cheeks and dug for the ponytail tie she always kept on her. She pulled back her hair, then looked straight at Brendan.

“We’ve got to get to New York.”

~~~

She’d been waiting, but it wasn’t until after she’d bought the plane tickets for a direct flight to New York that Brendan finally cracked.

“Ok, why don’t you tell me what’s going on, here? I meet you out of nowhere in Vegas, you tell me you used to know me, somehow convince me to jetset off with you to some _paper_ company in a small Texas town, where I see a more brutal crime than I ever have on the job. Who the hell _are_ you?”

“It may be the worst you think you’ve seen, but it’s not,” she said quietly. Of course, he wouldn’t remember being in Sacramento when twenty people were killed by the explosion at the G8 summit, or the mass suicide in Seattle, and he definitely wouldn’t remember being in the carnage of New York after Sylar.

Brendan ran a hand through his unruly hair and pulled at his collar. Sitting on a bench with a huff, he continued, “Would you stop that? Referring to things I can’t remember?”

Adrenaline was coursing through her in bits and spurts and she was feeling sick enough to want to puke yet she needed to remain calm to gain his trust. She began to pace in front of the clearly distraught and confused man.

“I told you, Brendan. I’m Freya McAllister and you used to be my partner.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that. And some crap about me being in the NSA, too. What is it you aren’t telling me? I can’t imagine, if I worked for the NSA, that they only sent one woman after me. If I can’t remember, how do I know they didn’t make me this way? Not being able to remember, doesn’t that make me a non-threat?”

“You’re not a threat and I’m not here to take you back and perform sci-fi movie experiments on you.” She inhaled sharply. “They took you _away from me_.” 

“What do you mean?”

She grabbed his hands in hers and sat them both down on a bench. “Our boss at NSA had it on good intelligence that one of…that Sylar was going bomb New York City. We were sent there to glean information as to the how and when. You’ve heard about Sylar on the TV, yes?”

“Yeah. I was there?” He blinked at her in disbelief.

“Yes, you were. When we discovered just how he was planning on destroying the city, we set about finding someone who could stop it. We sought the help of Peter Petrelli. Only he had the right kind of powers to fight Sylar.”

“The president’s brother?”

“Yes. But Sylar was able to gain the power that allowed him to explode. We were too late. Michael, my mentor was at the edge of it when it happened. He died.” She paused.

“I’m sorry.” Brendan patted her hand awkwardly.

Nodding, she continued. “You and I had been on our way back when the blast wave hit the outskirts of the city. We were traveling in different cars—I forget how we even managed to be separated. When the blast hit…I couldn’t find you. Your name never showed up on a dead list, but I couldn’t find you either.” She turned her head away, her hands unintentionally tightening on his. “I thought you were gone. That you’d died.”

“I didn’t, obviously. But what happened then? Why don’t I remember this?”

She turned back towards him, letting his hands slip away while she picked at a piece of lint on her pants. “When I…when I saw you yesterday, I couldn’t believe it. There you were, safe and sound. But you didn’t—don’t—know me. So I called my boss. The dead man in Texas. And he told me,” she took a breath, “he told me they’d taken away your memories. To protect me.”

“Protect you? How?”

“Ah. I‘m…I’m a telepath. I’m like them. When Nathan Petrelli passed the Linderman Act in his first one-hundred days, we had to go into hiding. You’ve seen the raids Homeland Security does. They want a cure. And they’ll do anything to get one and until then, they lock us up like rabid dogs.”

_What?!_

Brendan’s mental thoughts came to a crashing halt. She cringed. 

“It’s not like the President says. We don’t need a cure.” She spat the word out with disdain. “There’s nothing wrong with us. We’re not all like Sylar. I’m no threat!”

This she yelled as Brendan half-stood, backing away, clearly nervous now.

“So you can read my thoughts.”

“I can. When I want to. But I don’t invade my friend’s thoughts.”

A mental image flashed of her in lingerie with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment.

“Well, I try not to read your thoughts until you make them that obvious.” She rolled her eyes. “Pink, really?”

He blanched. “I’m sorry.”

“Brendan, it’s alright. I want to help you. I want you to get your memories back. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. We were a hell of a team.”

“We were?” The man slowly sat back on the bench, still edged far from her. It hurt a little. But she couldn’t blame him.

Just then their flight was called for boarding.

“Can you trust me, Brendan? I need you to. We have to get to New York. I don’t know what’s going on or why Bennet’s dead, but I know I have to go. And I want—no, I need you to come with me. You aren’t some policeman in Nevada. We can be partners again. Please, trust me.”

“How? This is a fantastic whirlwind adventure, but where is it leading? How can I help? If you’re able to read minds and you know people with these powers, what can I do?”

She smiled, gently. “You can be there. That’s all I need.”

She heard his thoughts give in before his face fell and he gave a nod.

“Alright, I’ll go.”

“You won’t regret it. I’m going to get your memories back, you’ll see.” Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the plane.

~~~

They caught a newscast on one of the airplane’s channels. The television boasted _America Remembers_ next to a picture of Sylar. Freya watched it on mute, unable to stand the so-called condolences President Petrelli would be handing out.

“It’s five years today,” Brendan said quietly.

“I’d forgotten,” she whispered.

He reached over and took her hand in his. They sat like that for the rest of the flight.

~~~

They touched down at JFK, midday. Televisions all around them were playing the President’s speech live.

“Where to next, intrepid leader?” Brendan joked, trying for lightness.

“Homeland Security,” she said.

“Joy,” he responded, straight-faced.

~~~

Once across the street from Homeland’s office building, she knew.

“Move, move, we’ve got to go, _now_ , Brendan!”

Together they dashed across the street and into the building. She didn’t let them stop to stare at the countless dead, armored bodies littering the lobby area.

“Upstairs, upstairs! Take the steps. They won’t expect that. Come on!”

She wasn’t sure what she was doing or why she was bringing Brendan straight into the fight. All she knew was a massive show down was happening. She could feel the Haitian. Once she got close enough, he’d be able to block her powers. She could feel Parkman’s thoughts, ready to gun down whoever was coming up. And she could feel not one, but two Hiro Nakumara’s, one confused and frightened, the other determined. And finally, she could feel Peter Petrelli. Somehow, he’d come out of his hermitage and decided to bring the fight to them.

Anger surged through her. Parkman, he’d been the one to kill Bennet. And the Haitian, the one who’d taken her partner, her best friend from her.

She sprinted up the stairs, not even heeding Brendan’s confused questions as he kept up behind her.

Then, abruptly, she stopped.

“I must go back to stop explosion. You know I’m telling truth.”

Hiro.

_“Hold him down.”_

_“Please, don’t do this!”_

She felt the crucial moment when Mohinder Suresh, long-time ally to the president and the one who sought a cure—her enemy—changed his mind, let doubt creep in.

_“I’m sorry.”_

_So sorry for all I’ve done._

Then the blankness that was the Haitian was gone.

“What is it?” Brendan asked, coming to a stop behind her, breathing hard.

“Go! There’s no time to explain.”

They made it to the top level just as she heard another voice.

“Oh, no. _Sylar_.”

They reached the end of the hall in time to see Sylar and Peter fly at each other and meet in a flash of light and sparks that reverberated down the whole corridor.

A million voices echoed strongly in her head and she couldn’t focus on any. She dropped to the floor in a panic, fingers grasping at the smooth tiles. She had to figure them out, had to help…

Brendan was at her side, but she could hardly register his physical touch beneath that of the voices in her head screaming. Her eyes were open, but all they saw were white light and sparks. The building was shaking around them.

She had nothing. She had no weapon, no powers. They were all going to die.

She could feel Sylar laughing. Somehow, he’d found the power to regenerate. Everything Peter threw at him wasn’t enough. He was unbeatable. Invincible.

Then, like a memory one can’t quite recall, something flickered. Then again. Finally, she knew.

She began to crawl towards the dueling duo, wincing every time the walls shuddered. Pieces of drywall were falling from the ceiling and metal supports and pipes were uncovered.

_Peter_ , she thought to him. _His head. You have to cut off his—_

Then, as though someone had simply flipped a switch, her power cut off; her mind, empty. Sylar was blocking it. She could only hope it had gotten through. She closed her eyes.

Behind her, her friend’s gun-calloused hands framed her face and Brendan whispered, “Freya. Freya. What can I do?”

She blinked, feeling saliva begin to form again. Her head was curiously light. It was hard to think. When she tried to move, she couldn’t make her limbs work.

“Distract.” She wet her lips, “distract him.”

“Who?” he asked, eyes brushing over her face, his expression confused. 

“Sylar.”

“The one from the TV?”

She tried to nod, but when her head didn’t move, she whispered, “Yes.”

She wasn’t even sure how he could distinguish between the two when most of the time, they were merely a fast-moving ball of light and explosions. But ever game, Brendan carefully set her head down on the floor and crept along the wall.

She was able to roll her face around to follow him, though her legs and arms were still too heavy to move. He stopped, ducked a bolt of electricity and reached into the wall for a pipe. He unscrewed it quickly and water burst through it, pushing him back, but he grabbed the metal rod and continued forward, stumbling as he went, dripping wet. A puddle was slowly creeping towards her.

All at once he was shoved to the side by the force of the fight. Standing, shaking his head, his hair now plastered to his skull, save one tuft in the back, he crawled forward and in the next moment the two men were separated, he managed to throw himself at Sylar in an attempt to take his feet out from under him with the pipe, letting out a wild call.

Unlike Peter, Sylar could use more than one power at a time. He appeared only to swat at a fly while maintaining a continued assault on Peter, but Brendan went flying through the air and smashed into a wall, crumpled and broken.

_Brendan!_ her mind screamed.

But that moment’s distraction had allowed Peter to grab the pipe still at their feet and when Sylar turned back to him, his expression registered surprise for an instant before his head flew off and everything ceased moving. The fireworks stopped. The dismembered head rolled to a standstill as the body fell. The only thing left was Peter, surrounded by a bright orange glow.

Freya cringed and closed her eyes tight, feeling the heat, hair on her arms crinkling, sure he would explode.

But a moment later, after nothing happened, she dared opened them again. 

The glow had faded and now Peter merely stood in the hall, leg spread, pipe dangling from one hand, while the broken pipeline in the wall gave a last good fountain spray and died. She realized all the water had evaporated on the floor from the temperature Peter had given off before he quelled the nuclear reaction.

The door at the end of the hall opened and out fell Mohinder.

“Peter!”

Moving quickly, Peter caught the tall man on the way down, cradling him in his arms.

“Nathan…I’m so sorry, Peter. So sorry.”

“Shhh.” She watched as Peter rocked them both. “I know. It’s not your fault, I know.” He pressed a kiss to the professor’s forehead.

Finally, free of Sylar’s mind block and able to move, Freya got to her knees and crawled to Brendan. He was completely unconscious and his limbs were at funny angles.

“Brendan, what have I done?”

Afraid to move him, she grabbed for his wrist. There was still a pulse. But it was faint.

“Hiro. He made it away. He went back.” Mohinder’s voice echoed down the hall to her.

“Good, good.”

It was only then she realized alarms were going off. It hadn’t been noticeable first over her fear and then over the sound of Peter and Sylar. Someone would be here soon.

She closed her eyes and laid her head down on Brendan’s thigh, listening to the sounds of Peter’s quiet reassurances.

~~~

As she sat in the hospital room, she listened to the loud beeping of the heart monitor, and a tear slipped from beneath her closed eyelids. Brendan had been comatose for two days with no sign of coming out of it. His legs were in traction, his left arm in a cast. She opened her eyes and stared at the pale form resting on the bed. Even his hair was flat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear me coming. I even made sure to actually walk in.”

She glanced up, surprised. At the foot of the bed was Peter Petrelli.

“What do you want?”

“To apologize. To thank him. Your friend saved my life, after all. Maybe everyone’s lives.”

Freya’s hands clutched at Brendan’s good arm. “At what cost? He was happy before I came along. Maybe it wasn’t his own life, but he was happy. Safe. Then I find him and drag him into a battle for which he was unequipped. He’s not…the same as us. I made him like this; it’s my fault.”

“No, no it’s not.” Peter stepped forward. “This, this is bigger than all of us. Maybe none of us ever had a choice. But we can’t look back. We have to move on. He did what he could, and without powers, he helped stop Sylar. Something I should have done a long time ago.”

Peter sighed, shuffling his feet and looking much more like the man she had met before any of this had ever happened. Younger, even with the scar slashed across his face.

“I was too scared. Too willing to believe. I never thought to question it. Nathan had always been with me, always protected me. I wanted to believe so bad Sylar had gone.”

“You…” Slowly it dawned on her. “You were the bomb. It never was Sylar, was it?”

“No. Nathan, he and I, we tried to find a way to stop it. But in the end, I couldn’t control it and he was too late. I exploded. Next thing I knew, Nathan was by my side in the hospital, telling me it was ok, he’d take care of it. No one would know. So when the news came out that Sylar had exploded, I let it be. I didn’t go after him. I should have known my own brother would never have passed something like the Linderman Act. Nathan hated that man.”

“But,” he shook himself from wherever he’d been, and his face lost its glazed expression. “I’ve come to make amends.”

With that, he stepped forward to the other side of the bed and laid his hands on Brendan.

“What are you—?”

Suddenly, Brendan’s body arched underneath Peter’s hands and he gasped loudly. When he fell back to the bed, he slowly blinked his eyes open. Peter removed his hands, one trailing along the older man’s hairline for a moment.

“Brendan!” she cried, reaching across him and throwing her arms around him. 

After a pause, she felt one of his hands come up and pat her awkwardly on the back. “Freya. What’s the matter? Hey, hey, shhh, it’s okay.” Both his arms pulled her into a hug, soothing her, one hand running through her long hair.

She clung to him. “Oh, God. I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’m right here. Hey, I’m not going anywhere.”

Finally, she pulled away.

“Do you remember?”

“What gave me this massive headache? Vaguely. Something about two guys shooting light out of their hands and me doing something stupid like getting in between them.”

She laughed, though it sounded more like a sob as she tried to stem her tears.

“I mean, before.”

His brow crinkled. “Like back to when you say I worked at the NSA? No.”

She grabbed one of his hands in hers. Then she looked up at Peter. “Can you do it? Can you give him back his memories?”

Peter shook his head. 

“But you have the same power as the Haitian.”

“I don’t have the memories. Only the person who took them can give them back.”

“But…but he’s dead. Mohinder killed him.”

“I’m sorry.”

She sat back in the chair, defeated.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Brendan spoke up. “I don’t need them. I believe you. And you can tell me all about it. I’ll relearn them.”

_I just know I want to be with you._

She smiled and smoothed the hair back from his face. 

“In the meantime, you think you could get this stuff off me?”

She and Peter both moved, getting his legs down together, taking the breathing tube from his nose. They’d have to have someone take the cast off. Not that anyone was likely to believe he’d healed already.

“Thank you,” she said to Peter who shrugged humbly. She turned to Brendan. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get you back to your promotion.”

Her friend shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? That’s not who I am, even.”

“You know…” Peter started, “we’re going to need people. People to set up a real government, people who can protect those like us. I want to fix everything that’s been wrong these past five years. I want to make it up to the country. To everyone I helped put in prison.” His voice was bitter.

“Hey,” she said softly. “You didn’t know. You didn’t know it wasn’t Nathan. And if you’d gone against him sooner, things might have turned out differently. Not as well. You did the best you could. We’ve all got to move on.”

Throwing his shoulders back, Peter said, “Yeah. Move on. I’ve been telling Nikki that for years. Maybe it’s my turn. So, I can get in contact with you?”

After a moment’s thought, she responded. “Yeah. I don’t know where I’ll be. But you can find me.”

“You can find us,” Brendan chimed in from the bed. They both turned to him. “Freya and I, we make a hell of a team.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Yeah we do.”

Neither noticed the corners of Peter’s mouth turn up in a quirk of a smile before he vanished, leaving them in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow and chat with me [on tumblr](http://mf-luder-xf.tumblr.com)!


End file.
